Biggles (39 page)

‘Not a particularly inspiring set of colleagues, Algy, old chap,' remarked Biggles when they were alone again. ‘Most of them seem to be old-time coppers on the verge of retirement.'

‘Or else nutters no one else would work with,' replied Algy grimly. ‘Poor old Raymond was obviously right when he complained about the jealousies of the senior policemen. Small wonder that he's not been getting very far.'

‘Exactly! And you'd hardly say that anybody has given us a particularly rapturous welcome. Still, I suppose it's understandable. New boys like us coming straight in from outside — people are naturally suspicious. All the more reason for us to make a real success of this affair, old fruit.'

‘Very high quality, I'd say, so obviously produced in an up-to-date laboratory and almost certainly in Europe. You don't get heroin as good as this produced in the Far East, unless it's in Formosa and Japan, and this hasn't come from there.'

The white-coated figure in the police laboratory looked up from his microscope and showed signs of starting on a lengthy lecture on the manufacture and analysis of heroin. Normally, Biggles and Algy would have heard him out, for Biggles in particular enjoyed listening to experts on their favourite subjects. But, they were in a hurry to get down to interview the steward, Hinds, who was still being held at the Hounslow Police Station.

‘I take it that you know the way this stuffs produced?' began the expert slowly.

‘Pretty well,' replied Biggles, trying not to sound too know-all, but remembering the time. ‘Starts off as opium, doesn't it? The opium is processed into morphine and that in turn is then converted into heroin. I suppose that this required a fair degree of skill and a good laboratory.'

The expert shook his head.

‘Not at all. I've known heroin produced in the wash-room of a Chinese restaurant, but it was pretty dreadful stuff. But this is the real mackoy. Ninety-seven per cent pure, which isn't bad at all. That's why I say the processing was almost certainly done in Europe.'

‘You can't be more specific?' queried Biggles.

‘Afraid I can't. But I'm fairly sure the original opium base came from Turkey. A lot of it does these days, and it's better quality than the Far Eastern stuff. Anything else you need to know?'

‘Not for the moment,' replied Biggles diplomatically. ‘We're both in something of a rush to interview the joker who was smuggling the stuff.'

‘Are you indeed? Then give the blighter hell. This little haul alone would have spelled living death for twenty thousand addicts in America. If I had my way I'd hang anyone caught smuggling heroin these days.'

‘And what about the big boys behind the trafficking?' asked Biggles.

‘I'd crucify them — except that slow death would be too good for them.'

Despite the analyst's grim imprecations, it was hard for Biggles not to feel a certain pity for the object of his anger. Air Steward Hinds could never have been an impressive figure of a man. Now he was pathetic, with his white face, bloodshot eyes and terrible moustache. Biggles soon realised something else about the wretched fellow. He was terrified.

Biggles and Algy interviewed him at the Police Station, and to begin with, he did little more than repeat the tale he had given Raymond. He hadn't realised what he was doing, and had no idea who was behind the traffic.

‘Who was the man who gave you the tube of shaving cream in Rome?' asked Algy.

‘No idea,' said Steward Hinds with an adenoidal croak. ‘He was just some geyser in a club.'

‘What club?'

‘I can't remember.'

‘Perhaps you'd better try. Whereabouts was it in Rome?'

‘I dunno that either. It was just a club. I went there for a drink, with one of my mates, and this character came up and asked me if I wanted to earn myself a hundred dollars. You know the rest.'

Biggles nodded. He did not particularly enjoy the role of police interrogator.

‘Who was this “mate” of yours who took you to the club? Was he another steward?'

Hinds gave a jump of pasty-faced alarm.

‘I didn't say so,' he said quickly.

‘Oh, I know you didn't.' replied Biggles casually. ‘I assumed it. Was I right?'

‘I'm not saying. I'm not saying anything. Why don't you let me be?'

‘All right, we will,' said Biggles gently, ‘but you realise you'll go to prison for a pretty hefty sentence? They're getting tough on traffickers, and the men behind it all go free. If you helped us, we could help you in return. It's the big boys we really want — not you.'

‘Leave me alone,' groaned Hinds. ‘That's all I'm asking.'

‘O.K.' said Biggles breezily, ‘but don't forget my offer, and thanks for all the help you've given us already.'

‘I haven't told you anything,' the steward said with fresh alarm.

‘Oh, yes, you have. Rather a lot, as it happens. I'm very grateful, and I'll make sure everybody knows about it.'

‘For God's sake, don't do that,' whispered Hinds pathetically.

‘Why not?' inquired Biggles.

‘Because they'll kill me if they think I've squealed, and I haven't. It's not fair.'

‘Fair or not,' said Biggles, ‘that's what I intend to say. I've a few friends in Fleet Street and it won't take much to get a paragraph or two into the papers, saying how pleased Scotland Yard is with its heroin investigation and how co-operative a particular steward has been.'

‘You'd not do that?' gasped Hinds.

‘Wouldn't I?' replied Biggles. ‘If you really want me to keep quiet, you'd better trust me, and start talking pretty quickly.'

‘So the bluff worked, did it James? I never realised that you were
so unscrupulous. You'll make a good policeman yet. Congratulations!'

Air Commodore Raymond bared his somewhat battered teeth into the semblance of a grin and winked at Algy.

‘I had to give my word that not a hint of what we've learned will be betrayed to anyone,' replied Biggles somewhat stiffly.

‘Of course, of course,' said Raymond quickly. ‘But why d'you think the blasted man's so scared? Who's he afraid of and why, when he'll soon be safe inside one of His Majesty's prisons?'

‘Good question, sir,' said Biggles, ‘and I've a hunch that the answer is an important key to this whole business. Even when he broke down in the end, Hinds wouldn't tell. But there's no question but that he was totally convinced that if these people find out he's betrayed them, he will die.'

‘Never heard such nonsense in my life,' said Raymond jocularly. ‘You make it sound like something from the Mafia.'

Biggles nodded silently. ‘It's possible. We just don't know, and Hinds didn't dare say, who these people were. I'm not even sure he knows himself, but whoever they are they've put the fear of God into him.'

‘But good grief, man,' exclaimed Raymond, ‘this is England.'

‘And we're dealing with a full-scale international racket.'

‘That's true,' said Raymond thoughtfully. ‘And what else did you learn from Hinds?'

‘Oh, quite a lot really, sir. It seems he did know the name of the bar all the time. It's called the Jockey Club and it's on the Via Veneto in Rome. Several other stewards are in the racket. He wouldn't tell me who they were, but apparently they've been visiting the Club for quite some time and picking up the drugs for delivery later in New York. It's all carefully worked out and on delivery they're paid immediately through an account in Switzerland.'

‘And did he tell you anything about this contact that he had in Rome?'

Biggles shook his head. ‘Not a great deal, I'm afraid. They would arrive there at a certain time, and when they left, the drugs would be waiting for them in a hold-all in the cloakroom. They'd get delivery instructions over the telephone back at their hotel.'

‘So they would never see a soul?'

‘Nobody, except for a man he called “the Barber” who was sometimes at the Club and who seemed to be a sort of strong-arm man for racketeers. Hinds disliked him, and described him in some detail. He's bald, extremely fat, and the second finger of his left hand is missing.'

‘Well done,' said Raymond, brightening considerably. ‘You've made a start. All we need now is proof so that we can smash this racket once and for all.'

‘And that's what I intend to get, sir,' replied Biggles, thrusting out his chin.

Late next afternoon one of the few aircraft on the strength of the Special Air Police — a single-engined Proctor monoplane which had seen better days — landed at Rome Airport with Biggles and Algy at the controls. It had been an uneventful flight, and both the chums had found the Proctor rather a boring little aircraft after the fighters they were used to from the war. All the same, it was wonderful to be in the air again after so many bleak months without an aeroplane to fly, and the flight across the Alps had been magnificent. The prospect of Rome excited them as well — if only as a change from a wet London spring — and both chums were in the best of spirits.

No sooner had they taxied the little aircraft off the runway than they were being given a true Roman welcome by an old friend, Brigadiere Grattapalli of the Italian Carabinieri, the official Roman representative of Interpol.

“
Ciao
Biggles, Algy!' boomed the Brigadiere, an impressive man with a silver-braided uniform and a magnificent handlebar moustache. He put his arms round Biggles and gave him an effusive hug, which Biggles found a shade embarrassing.

‘It's good to have you both in Rome at last! I can return a little of that hospitality you gave me in London. Now, Biggles, listen carefully. I know a little trattoria off the Corso where you get the finest pasta in the whole of Rome. Not even my old mother makes it better. Then we can have asparagus, spring lamb, a bottle or two of good Barolo and perhaps some strawberries and a little cheese to follow. What do you say, old friend?'

Biggles nodded just a trifle warily.

‘Marvellous, Luigi. But we're not here on a gastronomic trip. We've work to do.'

‘Work?' laughed the cheerful Brigadiere. ‘What is that old English saying? All work and no food makes Jack a small boy. Tomorrow we will work. Tonight we eat.'

He had a big official car, and Biggles and Algy made their entrance into Rome in style, — at ninety miles an hour, with siren screaming. Biggles had had the sense to book a good hotel — at the top of the fashionable Spanish Steps, with a fine view of Rome below its windows. As he explained to Algy, ‘It's most important to give a good impression to Italians. They call it
figura,
and they rather judge a fellow by the sort of
figura
that he makes.' Certainly it appeared to work with Brigadiere Grattapalli, who seemed impressed and rather grateful when Biggles asked him in to have a drink with them.

‘Listen, Luigi,' Biggles said, when the door had closed behind them and they were sipping their Campari sodas with the whole of Rome stretched at their feet. ‘I'm afraid this dinner of yours must wait. Tonight there's business to attend to and we need your help.'

‘Of course, Biggles my old friend,' replied the Brigadiere with sadness in his voice. ‘My wife keeps telling me I eat too much. What can I do for you? All the men at my command are yours.'

‘Extremely kind of you,' said Biggles quickly. ‘Now first, I want a man arrested.'

‘Is that all, my friend?' the Brigadiere replied with an enormous grin. ‘You mean we're giving up our dinner just because of that? Who is this
cretino
who is so important?'

‘A British airline steward by the name of Burt, Charles Burt. His plane will be landing at the airport in forty minutes' time. He will be staying here one night, and tomorrow morning flying back to London, then on to the United States. He is said to look rather like me, and I would like him brought here straight away, then guarded safely for the night and put back on his plane tomorrow morning.'

‘No trouble,' said the Brigadiere, ‘but what has he done, this Charles Burt of yours?'

‘Nothing,' said Biggles, ‘but it's because of what I know he will do if he's left free in Rome tonight that I want him safely under
lock and key. You see, Luigi, I intend to take his place, and from then on my life will be entirely in your hands.'

By the standards of the Via Veneto, the Jockey Club appeared distinctly dull when Biggles entered it just before eleven o'clock that evening. Outside, there was a neon sign with a horse's head in bright mauve lights, but the actual bar was down a flight of steps, and rather dimly lit. Not surprisingly, Biggles felt distinctly ill at ease in his airline steward's uniform as he picked himself a table and beckoned to the barman for a drink. Burt was a thinner man than Biggles, and the trousers pinched uncomfortably around the waist, but apart from this he made a reasonable-looking British airline steward, and in the dim light of the Jockey Club, no one would notice the deception.

The bar was fairly full, and Biggles had to wait some time for his Scotch and soda. He sipped it slowly and looked carefully around him. He was the only person there in uniform and most of the customers appeared to be tourists or good-time girls. Somebody played a Frank Sinatra record on the juke-box — a singer Biggles particularly disliked — and he was just about to drown his irritation in another drink, when a voice said, ‘Mr Burt?'

Biggles looked up to see a short bald man of extraordinary girth grinning at him from the entrance to the bar. Biggles nodded and the fat man ambled over.

‘Can I join you for a drink?' he asked.

‘Please,' said Biggles affably.

As the fat man lowered himself into his seat, Biggles' eyes were drawn to his hands. They were large and very white, and the left hand was v/ithout its second finger.